


lakeside and backlit

by Lilaciliraya



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Gryffindor Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts First Year, Hogwarts Second Year, Light Angst, Slytherin Harry Potter, but!, by the end, i guess, idk just read it thanks, im pushing it, it takes a while but it happens.. off screen, it's nice, just read it, kind of, okay it's like.., the summer before second year for like one paragraph, um
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-05-24 09:39:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14952213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilaciliraya/pseuds/Lilaciliraya
Summary: Harry comes to Hogwarts cold.He comes to Hogwarts like he’s Albus Dumbledore’s worst nightmare and he creeps his way in so silently that everyone is shocked still when McGonagall calls out his name and he emerges.They were waiting for a hero. Harry steps forward, instead.And when the hat yells out “Slytherin!” the whole castle stares waiting for the punchline-But before that, before the wizarding world decides that a Slytherin Harry can’t be brave, Draco Malfoy sees a boy at the train station and thinks that he is; he thinks that he’s the bravest boy he’s ever seen.And for a minute, Draco wants to be brave, too.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey! this is basically a bunch of random snippets that i was going to string together into an actual story but never did.. but like it's still cute i think.. i might continue it and add actual plot.. let me know if you're into it

The first time Harry makes his way to the spot exactly three quarters of the way between platforms nine and ten, he realizes that he has absolutely no idea what he is supposed to do. He tries moving to the nearest wall and watching, tries to find another person like him with a trunk or an owl or strange robes like the ones he’d seen people wearing in the alley. He watches closely for any sign that he isn’t alone. 

 

But the minutes tick by and he doesn’t see any sign of magic. He tries to figure it out himself, instead. He tries everything he can think of: he taps his heels together and says, “Hogwarts Express,” like he’d seen on TV, he whispers, “please please please,” he tries jumping up and down and wishing harder than he ever has. 

 

This is a Harry Potter that was ignored, who watched through the slats in his door as Dudley was showered in praise and presents and food and love. This is a Harry Potter that went to school only to be beaten by bullies and blamed by teachers that thought he was a criminal.

 

This is a Harry that  _ wants _. 

 

He pulls out his wand and tries tapping the ground, he taps his ticket, he taps out the beat of a song on the metal edge of his cart. None of it works. So he lays down in the middle of the station and wonders if perhaps he’s gone crazy and everything has just been a dream. Figures, he thinks, the best thing to ever happen to him never really happened at all. 

 

Then a boy approaches him, a boy with white hair and nervous eyes and his chin held high even so. He says, “My father thinks Muggleborns shouldn’t bother getting on the train at all, but- but I think you’re funny, you know, I’ve been watching, and- and so. Would you like me to show you how to get on the platform?” And he holds out his hand.

 

Harry stares. And then he grabs the boy’s offered hand and lets him drag him to his feet, up and along, straight through a wall and into a magical world. 

 

The boy talks the whole time, but Harry doesn’t hear a word of it because he’s busy being in awe of it all, of the fact that he isn’t crazy, of this boy who had walked up to a stranger and shown him hope, of the bustle around the train and all the people around him that are wizards, just like him.

 

And Harry takes a trembling breath and looks over at the boy who is still holding his hand and he opens his mouth and-

 

And then the boy smiles and says, “Well, that’s that then. Good luck at Hogwarts!” And Harry nods, tries to change his wide-eyed expression and fails, tries to come up with something to say that will keep the boy there and fails. The boy shifts a little and drops his hand and kicks lightly at the ground before turning and boarding the train.

 

And then Harry is alone again.

 

\---

 

Harry comes to Hogwarts a survivor, not a savior. 

 

Harry comes to Hogwarts cold. 

 

His green eyes that once so resembled his mother’s are harsh and calculating and unforgiving- now unrecognizable. 

 

He comes to Hogwarts suspicious and hardened and not ready to trust- but he comes.

 

He comes to Hogwarts like he’s Albus Dumbledore’s worst nightmare and he creeps his way in so silently that everyone is shocked when McGonagall calls out his name and he emerges. 

 

They were waiting for a hero. Harry steps forward, instead. 

 

And when the hat yells out “Slytherin!” the whole castle stares, waiting for the punchline. 

 

But Harry Potter is no joke; they’re discovering that . 

 

\---

 

This is a Harry Potter that grew up being told he was worthless, a burden, unwanted and unloved.

 

This is a Harry Potter that had no one, because everyone in his neighborhood knew that a boy like Harry Potter was trouble.

 

This is a Harry Potter that fights his way through life instead of laughing it off. 

 

\---

 

During his first potions class, Harry learns to be cautious around the man with the sharp eyes and cutting words and quick hands and the dangerous empty heart.

 

He’s Harry’s head of house. Figures.

 

\---

 

Nobody knows what to think of him, after the sorting. Harry Potter is a Slytherin and that’s not how it was supposed to be. Mostly they just try to ignore him, ignore the problem. 

 

Harry’s used to pretending he doesn’t exist. 

 

This is a Harry Potter that learned to hide, that learned to do it well. So while most of Hogwarts pretends that they never needed a savior, that they never expected a hero, Harry indulges them. 

 

He’s just like any other first year Slytherin, except for the fact that he’s not. Harry Potter is confusing, he’s off-putting, nobody understands him. He’s like a robot, a computer, it’s like he’s not even human, they say. He hears them and pretends it doesn’t hurt. He hides his tears and he hides his face and he hides himself away. 

 

Three weeks into the school year there is a rumor going around that nobody has ever seen him smile. 

 

When it gets back to the Slytherin dorm, Harry himself wonders if it isn’t true. 

 

\---

 

When Draco comes to Hogwarts he intends to be best friends with the Boy Who Lived. But then he meets another boy- a Muggleborn, he must be- and the boy seems a little lost and he is all alone and Draco thinks he must be so brave. 

 

And for a minute, he wants to be brave, too.

 

Draco finds out that the boy is Harry Potter later, but that is after he’s been sorted into Gryffindor.

 

Harry Potter is a Slytherin and Draco Malfoy is a Gryffindor and suddenly Draco is painfully, furiously, hopelessly jealous. So he forgets about the boy and the bravery and blames the ten seconds it had taken for him to lose his friends and his father and his confidence on Harry Potter, and he decides that he hates him. 

 

He pretends that he doesn’t notice Harry watching him with a blank stare and empty eyes and a green and silver tie around his neck. He pretends that he doesn’t care, that his chest doesn’t ache when he looks down to see his own colored red and gold. 

 

Harry never yells at him like he expects. He expects a fight, an uproar, a spray of cutting words aimed at his heart, but Harry Potter never says a word. He just sits and he watches and he waits, and the cold look in his eyes reminds Draco of the boy on the platform and how he’d been so warm, for a minute, right after Draco had pulled him through the barrier and it hurts just as much as he expected the anger to but in all the wrong ways. 

 

He isn’t sure how to fix it, when Harry never acts like he expects. He never thought his decision would be permanent, but Harry doesn’t call him out and so he has no reason to change his mind even though it  _ has _ changed, and he can’t summon up his courage again to talk to him because Harry was supposed to be the brave one. 

 

_ Harry was supposed to be the brave one.  _

 

Harry was supposed to be the Gryffindor and Draco was supposed to be the Slytherin but that isn’t how it goes. And there is no anger and no fighting and they aren’t friends but they aren’t enemies either. And the months go by and nothing ever changes. 

 

But Draco notices the eyes on him. 

 

\---

 

Harry watches Draco lift his cup at the Halloween feast and sip at his pumpkin juice and almost spit it out across the whole table because he’s laughing so hard at something Granger says and he feels something is his chest tug hard enough that he stills his hands where they are reaching for his own drink to wash down the bitter taste of loneliness on his tongue.

 

He watches, sure, he’s always watching. But he doesn’t think he can understand. He’s never been on the other side. He’s never had a friend. All he has is this pile of forgotten dreams that he stopped remembering years ago and a warmth in his chest when he remembers the first boy to hold his hand.

 

And every time he looks at him he remembers how nice he was and how he didn’t care that Harry was a little different. And every time he looks at him he remembers how his Aunt Petunia would hug his cousin, Dudley, and how he used to wrap his own arms around his stomach and imagine that someday he’d have the real thing and it would be even better.

 

But he’s always scared and he’s always watching and he never says a word and nothing ever changes. He never changes.

 

And no matter how much he begged the hat to be placed in Gryffindor he never belonged there.

 

Harry is a coward.

 

\---

 

Harry dreams of creatures with open mouths and crooked teeth and twisted, sallow skin. 

 

They stare back at him through every mirror and reflection in glass, in metal, in the surface of the Great Lake. He can’t escape them. 

 

They follow him and watch as hooded figures feed off of his hope. His stomach caves in and his cheeks hollow out and his eyelids become heavy and fall and fall and fall.

 

He is falling through some grey mist and he knows with absolute certainty that the second he hits the ground he is going to die.

 

They don’t know how to smile. He thinks the creatures are trying to smile but they don’t know how to do it right; they don’t know how to mean it.

 

And they open their great, gaping mouths even wider, with their crooked teeth shifting and rippling and sharp and sharp and sharp, and they get closer, closer still, and he thinks they are going to swallow him whole.

 

Harry dreams about death and monsters and dying and then he wakes and nothing changes. 

 

\---

 

Harry watches; he’s always watching. So he notices. When his defense professor starts watching him back, he notices. And he notices the way that his scar hurts every time he enters that one specific classroom. 

 

He notices just like he notices that Professor Snape hates him and Professor McGonagall wants to talk to him but keeps talking herself out of it instead, like he notices the way that the Headmaster’s eyes linger just a little too long some days, like he notices the extra attention he starts getting as the shock wears off and people begin waiting with bated breath for him to do  _ something _ . 

 

He keeps hiding instead. He goes to his classes and studies and practices in the library behind the rows of bookshelves. He sneaks to his common room right before curfew, avoids contact as much as possible. He’s here for a reason, and he’ll do everything that he can to stay here just so he doesn’t have to go back to where he came from. He never wants to go back.

 

He watches but he doesn’t act. Not yet. 

 

\---

 

A few days into the holiday break Professor McGonagall asks to see him, so he enters her office with sharp eyes and open ears and small, hesitant steps. She looks at him oddly and he looks back, trying to figure out what she’s been waiting to say to him, what she wants. 

 

When she finally speaks, Harry darts his eyes around the room, searching. She asks him what he knows about his parents, asks if he’d like to hear the stories she has to tell. He can’t figure out why, doesn’t see anything that he has to offer; the bare walls give him no answers. “What do you want from me for them?” he asks her, voice rough from misuse. 

 

The professor frowns at him and just stares for a while, stares at his guarded eyes and empty face and his feet where he’s set on his toes ready to run. 

 

She sighs, finally, thinking maybe she’ll never understand the boy in front of her and asks the question that has been on her mind. “You weren’t surprised, Mr. Potter. That first day when I transfigured in front of the class, you were the only one that wasn’t surprised.” She is looking for something. She’s looking for something more, for some confirmation that he’s special, that he’s smarter than he looks, that he’d figured it out and was hiding a true talent behind all the curtains, for something she can understand.

 

But Harry just looks back and whispers, “I was very surprised, Professor.” 

 

She is looking for all of the wrong secrets.

 

\---

 

Harry skips the Christmas feast and sits in a window instead, a big open window, one that looks out over the grounds. 

 

Outside the window Harry sees two boys playing. Their cheeks and noses are red like their flaming hair and their bodies are shaking with laughter. They run in circles, bundled up in sweaters and robes and scarves and hats and mittens, and they never go anywhere. They pick snow up off of the ground only to throw it and let it fall back down. It doesn’t make any sense.

 

The sun is setting over the school grounds and snow is falling against the glowing orange backdrop. There are trees standing tall with icicles hanging from their branches, bushes that sag under the weight of the gathered snow, large dunes of pure white sprawled across the rolling hills. Harry imagines the way it would sound creaking under his feet. 

 

He imagines the way the chill would feel over the tips of his ears, how it would burn as he pulled the air into his lungs. 

 

He imagines the layers of cloth folding around his body and tucked close, imagines how warm and safe and heavy he would feel. He imagines that he could lay down in the creaking snow and stare at the clouds as they turned from orange to pink to purple and black, imagines that when he finally made his way inside his whole body would be pins and needles. He imagines a cup of hot chocolate in his hands at the kitchen table, and somebody sitting across from him that cares. 

 

Inside, he hears only the hollow beat of his own heart bouncing off of the cold stone walls and echoing through the empty corridor.

 

He imagines holding his breath until there is only silence, like the world outside, sound damped by the soft covering of snow.

 

\---

 

Draco returns and with him come classes. Harry goes back to sneaking, lurking, ducking around the eyes that still follow him. And watching- Harry goes back to watching.

 

Professor Quirrell is hiding something, of this Harry is absolutely sure. He can tell that they are one and the same, just made-up patchwork people, never showing how they feel. Professor Quirrell is not Professor Quirrell at all; he’s a character. 

 

Harry decides that they need to band together, then, and stays behind after class to talk.

 

The professor rests his hand on Harry’s shoulder and asks what he needs, accidentally brushing his thumb over Harry’s neck with his movement. He jerks his hand back like it just touched a hot stove and Harry’s skin burns in turn and his scar is screaming at him and suddenly he realizes. He realizes what it meant when his scar hurt every time he saw the man in front of him. 

 

They are not the same.

 

Professor Quirrell isn’t hiding anything; he’s hiding a  _ lack _ of something, something important. He is hiding the great, gaping black hole inside of his chest where souls are torn apart and buried. 

 

Professor Quirrell is not Professor Quirrell at all; he’s the enemy.  

 

\---

 

Draco sees the way that Harry Potter hides himself away and he’s jealous because not only is Harry a Slytherin, he’s also exactly the kind of son his father had always wanted him to be. Harry can keep up the mask that Draco had always tried so hard and failed at. 

 

He doesn’t understand why it has to hurt so much. 

 

One day, toward the end of the year, Professor Quirrell leaves and Harry Potter isn’t in class for a week. He never finds out what happened but it feels important somehow. 

 

Exams come and go and Draco gets distracted, and over the summer he forgets.

 

\---

 

When August finally comes Harry goes to Diagon Alley for his things and he runs into Draco Malfoy and his father- he runs straight into them and they stumble back while Harry falls to the ground. 

 

When he looks up Harry sees a hand over him, just like last year. Draco reaches out a hand and Harry takes it. Draco’s father looks so much like him except for the look of disdain and disgust on his face when his eyes point in Harry’s general direction. 

 

He picks up Harry’s books from where they scattered across the ground anyway, and when he holds them out to Harry, Draco takes them instead. When Draco’s father’s eyes look at him his face doesn’t look any less disgusted.

 

Draco has heard his father talking all summer, talking about plans and danger and secrets. When he sees a book that doesn’t belong in the stack that his father is handing to Harry, he knows that something more is happening. So he takes them and tells his father that he’s going to help his friend with his shopping and that he’ll meet up with him later. And even though the boys are only twelve, his father doesn’t argue before walking away. 

 

Draco hands Harry the books back, keeping the one his father slipped in. “So where are you headed next?” Draco asks, but Harry is already slinking away. Draco stops him, his hand on his shoulder. Harry freezes. His whole head turns as he looks at the point of contact. Then his eyes flick up to meet Draco’s. 

 

He doesn’t speak. Draco Malfoy has never seen Harry Potter speak. Instead he stares, hard and sharp and cutting, and Draco almost flinches back except then he sees something else in Harry’s face, something soft and hidden. 

 

“Look, I know we got off to a bad start, but I really do want to get to know you. We can finish getting your school supplies and everything. I mean- did you come with anyone?” 

 

Harry shakes his head, no. He’s alone. 

 

Draco smiles, “Where to?”

 

\---


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The leaves rustle in the breeze across the open water. He throws a stone and sees all of his pieces scatter. A nose here, an eye there. Creatures sound their voices all around him. This is wilderness; this is messy: a collage of contradicting parts.
> 
> Who is Harry Potter?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a bit short, but it's all i have for now and i want to get something out there instead of sitting around and re-reading it. maybe it'll get me writing again. anyway, enjoy!

Harry follows him, of course he follows him. But then outside of Flourish and Blotts he stops suddenly and so Harry stops, too. He turns and holds out a hand and says, “Draco Malfoy.” 

 

Harry stares, studies him, until Draco returns his arm to his side. He smiles anyway- at Harry. And Harry feels that warmth again, so he takes a deep breath and answers, “Harry,” and his voice is too rough and too quiet but he reaches out his hand a few inches. And Draco shakes it. 

 

“Well, it's nice to meet you, Just Harry.” Suddenly it clicks- what he’s doing. 

 

Draco watches Harry smile; he doesn't think he’s ever seen Harry Potter smile but now he is. At him. So he smiles back. He sees Harry startle and the smile drops off his face but then it comes back, brighter. The famous green eyes in front of him light up for a second before Harry turns his face to the ground.

 

Harry has never introduced himself to anyone. They always know who he is; everybody always knows more than he does.

 

“So, who are you, Harry?” he starts walking again so Harry snaps out of it. 

 

It's a good question.

 

\--

 

He has to return to Privet Drive but this time he remembers the warmth of Draco’s hand and his smile and the way he chatted with him all day even though Harry didn’t say much back. He feels bubbly inside. Harry’s never had a friend but maybe Draco can be one, now. Maybe things are about to change.

 

It lasts until the day he gets to go back to Hogwarts. This time he knows where the platform is and he knows how to get there. He boards the train and picks a compartment and this time- this time he’s only alone for twenty minutes before Draco finds him and he chooses him over all his friends, chooses Harry. 

 

This is a Harry that still finds it hard to believe anyone else could recognize the worth he’s tried so desperately to believe exists inside of him. This is a Harry that, for the first time, has somebody else trying to prove it to him. This is Harry Potter: happy.

 

Draco sees Harry shift on his seat and offer a tentative smile. He’s noticed that Harry smiles a lot, contrary to expectations. He thinks that everyone has got it wrong, that Harry couldn’t hurt anyone, that he doesn’t think he’s too good for them. He thinks it’s quite the opposite, really. He remembers the shy boy he’d seen last year all alone with no clue where he was or where to go and he remembers the smile Harry had given him then, after Draco helped him, a little overwhelmed but genuine. Harry Potter is no hero but he isn’t cruel either. He’s just quiet, unsure, slow to trust.

 

He wants to start a conversation, maybe ask Harry about his summer, but then Hermione enters the compartment. 

 

“Draco! I thought maybe I beat you here because I couldn’t find you but I was running late and I know you like to- oh,” she notices Harry, “hello.” Harry just blinks at her. Draco sighs. “I’m Hermione,” she adds, but it’s softer this time, a little more hesitant.

 

This is a Harry that doesn’t understand the ways that people open up and become something to each other, this is a Harry who has never had reason to trust another person’s intentions.

 

He tries to nod back, but it’s a little too late and it just ends up making everyone more uncomfortable. Harry knows he isn’t very good at this.

 

It’s a long train ride; Draco and Hermione talk and he listens. 

 

This year when they arrive they get to take carriages to the castle instead of the boats. They are pulled by sickly creatures with too-tight skin and visible bones. Harry stares for too long and it draws the attention of Draco and Hermione. “You coming, Harry?” she asks him, and he gets in. He watches them, though, and he can tell that the other two don’t understand why he is so interested in these creatures. He wonders what they are. Maybe this is just what magical horses look like. 

 

“What is it, Harry?” Draco asks this time, and so Harry has to acknowledge him. He just shrugs, because he doesn’t know.

 

\--

 

This is a Harry Potter that stays quiet, that observes, that holds himself back. This is a Harry Potter that never asks for help because he’s never had anybody to give it. 

 

This is a Harry that knows how to tread lightly and speak cautiously and never admit to any faults.

 

\--

 

He makes it through the welcome feast but he needs to talk to Draco. Everything is changing so he thinks- he needs to talk to Draco. Those creatures won’t get out of his head. He wants to ask what they are, where he can find them, why they nobody else gave them a second glance. So he catches him as they’re leaving the Gryffindor table and asks Hermione to give them a minute. 

 

“Draco, I want to- I need to ask you something, if that’s- is that okay?” is all he can manage. He can’t even look him in the eye. 

 

“Of course, what is it?” 

 

They looked like death, that’s what it is. Harry can’t get the picture out of his head: the dark stretched skin and the way they looked starved and lonely yet strong, somehow.

 

He can’t stop remembering the way that Quirrell’s flesh sunk in and burned.

 

He remembers his own hollow cheeks in the reflection of his window at Privet Drive at night, when he was trapped inside with nothing except his own thoughts. 

 

He wants to find them, the creatures. He wants to show them the warmth that Draco managed to show him, if he can. He wants to set his hand on their sides and just let it sit there- present and undeniable, ‘you are not alone.’ He doesn’t know where to find them. 

 

“Those things, the- pulling the carriages- what were they?” He asks, and he feels out on display and terrified. Draco frowns at him. This was a bad idea; maybe he should back out now while he still can. He doesn’t want to make anyone angry. 

 

“Harry, nothing pulls the carriages. It’s magic.” 

 

“Oh, right.” Now is the time to stop. He doesn’t want Draco to think he’s crazy and leave, so he has to drop it. “Forget it, then.” He turns to walk back to the library where he can hide out until curfew. 

 

“Wait!” There’s a hand on his arm, again. He’s getting used to the feeling. “Is that what you were staring at, earlier? Did you see something?”

 

“It was nothing. I should go,” and he slips away.

 

\--

 

This is a Harry that understands how one’s fortune can change in an instant- who knows that he was destined to be happy until one single spell ripped his whole future away. 

 

This is a Harry with a mind full of consequences, a Harry that has finally realized that every time he thought his aunt was being unreasonable and punishing him for things that couldn’t possibly be his fault he was really being punished for doing magic. 

 

He shouldn’t push his luck.

 

\--

 

Classes start up again and Harry tries to settle back into the rhythm of Hogwarts life but the problem with hiding in the library is that Hermione likes to spend a lot of time there, too. A week into the school year she sits down at his table next to him, all careless and noisy, drawing attention. Harry shrinks in his seat. 

 

“I’ve found something,” she whispers, and he wonders what he’s missing because there is definitely some important piece of information that he hasn’t been clued in on. He’s getting better at talking, so he’s able to jolt his body into action after only about thirty seconds of staring. 

 

“What?” Harry forces out and his voice is too flat but it’s still the best he can manage.

 

“Draco told me you wanted to know what was pulling the carriages, which, of course, I thought was crazy at first because  _ nothing _ pulls the carriages, they pull themselves! But I tried researching it anyway and I found something. Look!” A giant book is pushed into his face and his head is still ringing.  “It’s right here, see?”

 

He follows her fingers to a paragraph but gets sidetracked by the illustration, letting a quick intake of breath sound throughout the quiet library. “That’s what they looked like,” he says, unable to tear his eyes away. 

 

“Right,” she continues, “and it says here that they’re called thestrals, only-” there’s a moment of silence. “Harry, you shouldn’t be able to see them.” 

 

Harry just lifts his head and stares back. 

 

“It’s just- you can only see them if you’ve seen death,” she tells him. 

 

Thestrals, he thinks. Oh. He has to get out, though, because Hermione wants to know too much when she shouldn’t have known anything at all. So he gets up from his seat and hurries away.

 

“Harry,” he hears behind him in a harsh almost-whisper. He doesn’t turn around.

 

They can’t know.

 

\--

 

They’re in the library now, Draco and Hermione, so he takes to sitting by the Great Lake. He stares at his reflection in the water. He stares at his reflection surrounded by nothing but darkness. He blows on the surface of the water and sees his face tremble beneath the ripples. 

 

Everything is closing in. 

 

He sees his shaking form surrounded by a vast nothingness that feels pressing. He doesn’t know what it wants, doesn’t know what he has to offer but he’d give it.

 

They say Harry Potter is a hero, a savior. They say Harry Potter defeated Voldemort; they say he slayed monsters. At ten, he’d gone after a pack of vicious werewolves and saved a whole town. At eleven, they say he’d fought a troll. They say there was a dragon in the forest and they’d seen him take it down. They say Harry Potter will save them all.  He’s just trying to save himself.

 

Maybe he’s gone dark, they whisper later, after the sun falls, when shadows hide their faces. Maybe he’s a nasty little boy who struck up a deal with the enemy and he’ll go after Hogwarts next. Maybe he’s switched sides. He didn’t know there were sides in the first place, when all he’s doing is trying to survive.

 

He wonders these days if the Dursleys were right. Normal doesn’t seem like a such a bad idea. 

 

He isn’t a criminal but even wizards expect him to be a killer. He _ is _ a killer, now.

 

He’s just a boy with a lot to prove.

 

The leaves rustle in the breeze across the open water. He throws a stone and sees all of his pieces scatter. A nose here, an eye there. Creatures sound their voices all around him. This is wilderness; this is messy: a collage of contradicting parts.

 

Who is Harry Potter?

 

Harry was born of death and a flash of green light. 

 

Green for envy, for watching from behind locked doors and wanting. Green for sickness and decline and fading away. Green for Slytherin. For evil. Hate. Green for the killing curse. 

 

He is made up of thestral bones and spider webs and forgotten, lonely things. 

 

When he was younger monsters lived in closets and dark corners and looming shadows. Harry grew up in a cupboard and some nights he stayed up to check. He couldn’t find anything but himself. 

 

Then he got his letter and they moved him to the bedroom. He came to Hogwarts. And they gave him a green and silver tie.

 

They ask him to be a murderer but that’s what they’re scared of, too.

 

\--

 

The next day both Draco and Hermione corner him in the corridor. “Harry,” Hermione starts, “why can you see the thestrals?” Draco is watching him closely. This time, Harry is worried that if he doesn’t answer his friend then Draco will hate him, so after a moment of consideration he nods his head to the side and ducks into an empty classroom. He doesn’t want anyone else to overhear. 

 

“You can tell us, Harry,” Draco says. Harry doesn’t think he has much of a choice.

 

“It was Professor Quirrell, except he- wasn’t,” he starts. “Last year, our professor was actually Voldemort. So I asked him for extra lessons one day and- and I acted like I needed his help getting up. Then I used  _ petrificus totalus  _ and I- when I touched him he burned.

 

“I killed him,” he whispers, even quieter than before. “But he was Voldemort and he wanted to kill me, too, so the Headmaster told me-he said that I could still come back.”

 

Draco and Hermione don’t speak and Harry can hardly stand it; he doesn’t think he can force himself to look at their faces. Then- “Oh, Harry, are you alright?” It’s Hermione. He’s so surprised that his head jerks up and when he sees them they don’t look scared. 

 

“Yes?” He answers, but he’s not sure if he was supposed to. 

 

“That’s terrible Harry, I’m glad he didn’t hurt you,” Draco adds.

 

“Oh.” 

 

That’s the day that Harry Potter gets his first hug.

 

It’s from Draco, always Draco Malfoy.

 

\--

  
  


He wants so much but he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to take. He wants Draco to be his friend. He wants to be ‘just Harry’ all the time. 

 

He sees Draco writing in a thin black book with a lot of empty pages. He’s always writing. Harry wonders if he’s writing about him. 

 

Maybe he wants that, too. 

 

But Draco’s hardly around anymore, hardly sleeping either. He shows up to class seconds before they start and he looks exhausted.

 

He's worried that he's driving his only friend away.

 

He wants to ask Draco to stay but he doesn't know how.


End file.
